Fortitude
by lapsus calami
Summary: The doctor falls ill to a deadly fever, and the captain is torn at the formerly invincible physician’s vulnerability.


Title: Fortitude  
  
Summary: The doctor falls ill to a deadly fever, and the captain is torn at the formerly invincible physician's vulnerability.  
  
Note: I read this over a few times, and it seems VEEEERY slash-y. Yet, I remonstrate – it is NOT slash. Not, not, not, not, not (+knows there are probably people who don't believe her+), not, NOT slash. I cannot stress enough – this is NOT a Stephen/Jack slash fic. Friends. Friiiiieeeends. That is ALL.  
  
Another Note: Takes place during 'The Commodore'.  
  
His head was positively reeling, not aided by the usual cries attributed to a normally cheerful ship, and the doctor leaned back further in his cot. Searching fingers patted their way along the nearby cabinet's surface, the one that served as a nightstand. First, they fell past the object of their original search, finding instead the handle of a pleasant jug of tepid water laced with coffee. With vague indifference, the doctor took a quick sip of this and set it back carefully on the cupboard. He luckily found his shaving-glass shortly afterwards, and he observed himself in the reflection.  
  
His lips were a bright crimson, and very well might have been reddened from one of those rouges that women used – a sad defect from his present ills, and his tongue was a disgusting brown about the centre, in contrast to yesterday's scarlet. Bright blue, pale eyes stared back at him, quite alive, and were somewhat ferrety in appearance about the edges. His meagre hair, black, was the same as ever.  
  
Aside from that, he knew how he _felt_ – indolence in abundance, general muscular aches ('though fading, he had to concede), sentiment of unusual stupidity, and a developing headache from the night before that had finally transformed into a full-blown migraine.  
  
Jovial shouts, laughter, that would have usually gone unnoticed were yet another stab of pain in his blistering mind; curious, as the seamen had begun to avoid the skylight, just above the orlop where Stephen had retired. Certainly, he himself did not believe it to be contagious, and Preserved Killick – blessed Killick – did his best to instate that fact amongst the crew. Yet, superstitious, suspicious beasts as seamen are, they did so just the same.  
  
The dim gloom of the cabin was shattered as yet another shaft of golden morning light pierced the darkness – Maturin shielded his eyes, lowering his hand only to find Jack in the doorway. 'Sorry to disturb you, brother,' the captain said, 'But I thought I might join you for a moment or two.'  
  
'Not at all, Jack,' replied Stephen with a yawn – doziness, one of the symptoms of the first stadium of the yellow jack. 'Please, do –' He motioned recklessly with his hand towards one of the numerous lockers lying about the cabin. Jack nodded and pulled one up, plopping down on it without so much ado.  
  
'How are you feeling?' Jack asked, his tone curiously low – Stephen blinked as he strained his ears to hear him; in his own opinion, this might not be quite necessary as of yet, perhaps. Jack, not being particularly versed in medicine, probably thought it best to speak as 'though he were on his deathbed.  
  
'Probably not far from true,' Stephen mused silently before answering. 'Very well, I thank you,' he replied, almost automatically. Jack peered at him inquisitively.  
  
'"Very well, I thank you"?' Jack repeated before laughing. '"Very well", O, ha, ha, ha!' Stephen hid a frown – this, not surprisingly striking Jack as terribly amusing, was indeed somewhat ironic. To be very well, as Stephen had said, while plunging into the bowels of the yellow fever, a killer on all accounts – somewhat to Jack's tastes.  
  
'Indeed,' Stephen replied, rather more curtly than he felt; however, a sudden notion of slumber felled him in a single blow, and remaining awake – rather forcing it so – caused his hackles to rise considerably.  
  
'I am sorry, Stephen,' said Jack, smiling still, 'but that – I don't know.' Stephen's expression did not change, and Jack's face was crestfallen. 'O, dear...'  
  
Stephen made a weak attempt at a conceding smile. 'I am sorry, dear,' he said. 'One of the symptoms, I do fear, if I am not quite mistaken – melancholia, mind. And, apparently, a considerable amount of inanity, which probably accounts for my reply.' He looked at Jack intently. 'I should think you know of one Doctor Lind's works on this "yellow jack", as you so put it. But you persist on your visits to my little –,' he glanced about awkwardly, ' – sickroom. How so?'  
  
'Well, I'd ne'er mind some little fever, Stephen!' said Jack rather strongly. 'At any rate, I took it in Jamaica, an' I smoked it, as I said before. Quite alive and breathing before you now, after all, as you might have observed.' Jack rested his hand on his own knee, almost as 'though to support himself on his seat. 'Of course, you did say so yourself, that it wasn't quite so infectious – that's fair enough, I daresay.' He nodded wisely to himself, obviously confident in Maturin's assumption.  
  
Stephen's smile grew not so very much forced as natural. As much as he was tried, wearied, Jack's near indefatigable cheer never failed to heighten his spirits, and his confidence even more so. Even as he spiralled into yet another doze, he could feel his friend's massive hand envelope his own; it was deeply touching, how Jack ignored the moist, frail, scarred feel of the mutilated, disfigured fingers. 'God love you, Jack.'  
  
+++  
  
He could be lying there, dying.  
  
Jack stirred suddenly from a long, long lapse of consciousness, awaking to this abrupt thought. He found himself still sitting on one of the lockers, Stephen's hand still in his. With his right, so as not to disturb the sleeping Stephen with his left, which held the broken hand still, he rubbed at a sleepy eye with his forearm with a silent yawn.  
  
The doctor was still, pale eyes hidden by finally lapsing lids. His face was ashy white, and his eyelashes, light as they were, contrasted amazingly against the grey of his face. His lips held little distinguishable colour, Jack noticed, as he sat there, observing Stephen's face. His cheeks shone with sweat that refused to dry. Jack frowned, and withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket; after recovering from the initial shock of having a clean handkerchief on his person, he proceeded to lightly swab at Stephen's face.  
  
Jack, trying with some difficulty, shifted his bulk so as to look into Stephen's glass – barely any water left, as he had insisted on forcing Stephen to drink his fill, upon any moment of awareness. Very, very gently, he rested Stephen's hand on the poor fellow's breast, and stood. Jack leaned himself out of the orlop's entry and called softly, 'Killick! Killick, there!'  
  
'Which I'm coming,' the steward mumbled, and looking, Jack thought, like a pompous penguin, trundling along. Jack chuckled quietly to himself, and decided to try to remember that – 'Pompous penguin,' he repeated aloud with a smile, until Preserved Killick had wholly arrived.  
  
'Go fetch another jug of water, with the coffee, then,' Jack said, to Killick's feigned disdain.  
  
Jack returned to his former place, but did not take Stephen's hand again. He frowned at the coca-leaves that sat on the nightstand – he seldom approved of any panacea that Maturin produced –, but did not remark, even mentally.  
  
The sheer frailty of Stephen's person was striking, so sudden and shocking – he had always been, to some extent, the ideal figure to look upon as unchanging: his looks were constant, his health, his common sense, his wry humour. Seldom did it seem that Stephen could conceivably be taken by some unseen foe, could not conquer with ease. 'Why,' Jack thought incredulously, recalling India, first aboard the 'Surprise', 'I've seen him operate on HIMSELF. What was it that he said – "I do this with mine own hand." And then, "If it could do the first task, it can do right the other – that's justice," or something of that nature.'  
  
Stephen stirred, still more sudden and shocking than his appearance. Jack started, beginning to rise from his chair. 'Which I'm coming with the coffee-water!' he heard Killick say loudly, probably hearing him stand, with his creaky limbs and joints.  
  
'Stephen, lie fast, there,' Jack said quietly. He saw the pale, small hand shudder and rise slightly, inclining towards Jack himself. The captain stared at it for a moment in confusion, but finally understood. Without a word, Jack took Stephen's hand in his.  
  
+++  
  
A very, very slight chill shrouded Stephen's wits – even without his Fahrenheit's thermometer, he knew that his temperature was somewhat less than regular. His pulse, which he would check oft in consciousness, was sluggish, weak, and failing. 'Though quite agitated, unwilling to lie still, he could not move himself from his cot if he had wanted to.  
  
Throughout the ordeal, Jack was at his side, or pacing the small perimeter of the room quietly. Mostly, however, he sat there, on that same locker, and held Stephen's hand quite gently, despite the continuous, unceasing sweat that simply poured from his limp, pale hand. Still yet, his soul grew plaintive, not aided by his restlessness.  
  
Jack gazed down at Stephen's sallow face, which was shining with perspiration. He was alarmed to think that this, this piteous creature, was his dearest friend. Yellow stained the whites of his eyes, his flesh, clammy and cold. Once so often, Maturin would stumble from a half-dream (or perhaps into one?), delirium incited both by the coca-leaves and yellow jack itself, and the quiet voice that he spoke in, barely rational in comparison with the Stephen of good health, made it somewhat easier to believe. However, the poor, retching thing that heaved black vomit, the wan thing that depended so very much upon the captain – without it mumbling words of courage, Jack could not believe it of him.  
  
The third stadium did not strike, yet some of it's signs prevailed, in small ways – anxiety cloaked his senses, wholly overriding them, and Stephen felt as 'though he could not breathe without some difficulty; these exhales oft came in long, almost mournful sighs. His pulse, checked but once that day, as it was the only time he could truly master his fingers to his wrist, was still faint; but remained it even, he was glad to think. Perspiration ran without shame down his pale, yellowing cheeks and brow, and purple spots took form against the yellow background of his sweating skin.  
  
Stephen did not speak – too tired, too weakened, all but to moan. He had ceased eating some time ago, and he could only just sense Smith, Macaulay, and perhaps Jack, lightly touching at his skin with moist sponges. He could still hear the voices ahead, 'though they were faded, as 'though in a trance – 'Which he shan't live much longer, I don't say – let over the side as church is rigged, pro'lly.' –, yet their words did not distress.  
  
'I daresay you'll recover nicely,' Macaulay repeated, smiling after the first official announcement. 'Quite nicely, I say.'  
  
This being the fourth or fifth time his colleague had decided upon this, Stephen did not return the smile – certainly, he _would_ recover, yet as his being still under tolerably bad condition, he could not, or chose not, to reply in like kind.  
  
It was a long while before Maturin could even lift himself from his cot, and even then with Jack standing by, ready to catch his friend should his legs refuse to support. This proved unnecessary – Stephen, propped against his gold-headed cane, smiled feebly and attempted to straighten. 'I give you joy, sir,' said Jack with a laugh, which Stephen replied to with a weak chuckle of his own.  
  
Hunger returned quickly, as did strength – soon enough, he had returned to his usual place, at the usual time, in the great cabin, 'cello in hand. All but for being lashed firmly in his chair, held up by some pillows, it was the quite the same as always: they began with the Clementi, the same pianoforte that they had been attempting to transpose to the violoncello and violin. Jack searched for yet another music score, and Stephen ran through a favoured Bach prelude. When both had finished, they carried on throughout the usual round: the Mozart concerto, the Scarlatti, the Boccherini, finishing with the Corelli.  
  
'I do wonder,' said Stephen, after his potto had been brought, looking perturbed at being awaken at so early an hour as this (being creatures of the night, she generally rose in approximately two hours hence). He gently thrust a bit of banana towards the she-potto's mouth, and Jack watched, vaguely interested.  
  
'Wonder at what?' asked Jack, who gazed at the wide-eyed creature with a smile.  
  
'How men can conceivably abide being in considerable sloth for such a long periodical – to lie abed for days, weeks, even, upon end, at the surgeon's whim. 'Though it might actually be favourable, according to their temperament.' Stephen blinked, the potto escaping his grasp for a moment before he returned to the present. 'At any rate,' he finished, 'I am quite glad to be about again.'  
  
'As am I,' said Jack agreeably before he thrust himself into the old Corelli again. 'As am I.'  
  
The Very Last Note: The line mentioned, when Jack recalls Stephen saying 'I do this by mine own hand', was really 'I do this with my own hand. If it could undertake the one task, it must take the other: that is but justice.' From the 'HMS Surprise', mind. Thought that might need clarification, lest one might think I simply took that from the film. Oo;; Wouldn't want that, now, would we? 


End file.
